Riding With the Devil's Mistress (Lou Prophet Western #3) by Peter Brandvold Page B

his bones, Prophet rose
occasionally and walked around the general store ’s roof. Then he sat down again
and rolled another quirley.
    About two hours after
he ’d begun
his vigil, he heard the slow thud of hooves and the tinny clatter
of a bridle bit. Standing, he saw the boy from the livery barn
leading Mean and Ugly this way down the main drag. The boy tied the
horse to the hitch rack directly below Prophet, then, tossing a
wary glance at the saloon, slipped slowly off in the
darkness.
    The sounds in the saloon had
grown into a constant, muffled roar, the piano not so much being
played anymore as pounded, its discordant notes punctuating the din
of the yelling, drunken men. It was time. The noise would cover any
made by Prophet, and the senses of the men would be sufficiently
dulled that even if they did happen to see or hear him,
they ’d be
less effective at doing anything about it.
    He made his way carefully off
the roof, trying not to make any noise and wake any dogs on this side of
the main street. The night was black as pitch, for clouds had moved
in to cover the stars. He had to be extra methodical in finding the
barrels he’d used to hoist himself onto the roof. He got only one
foot on one of them, and went down hard on his side, the barrel
falling on his right leg.
    Fortunately, the barrel was
empty and didn ’t do any damage, but Prophet still cursed his clumsiness
as he adjusted the shotgun, made sure his revolver was still on his
right hip, the bowie on his left, and headed down the alley. When
he came to the main drag, he paused beside the general store,
making sure none of the gang was outside, then headed for the
saloon.
    He was no more than halfway across the
street when the saloon door opened and several men started onto the
boardwalk under the awning, their voices loud in the quiet night,
the piano music and din pushing out behind them.
    Prophet froze, his veins filling with
adrenaline. He crouched, looked around, and headed for the
boardwalk across the side street from the saloon, hoping the
shadows of the shop there would conceal him.
    Making the boardwalk at a
shuffling, crouching run, holding the shotgun across his chest, he
pressed his back against the wall of the store and gritted his
teeth, watching the three silhouettes of the men across the street,
and listening. From their conversation, if you could call their
drunken blather conversation. Prophet could tell they
hadn ’t seen
him. He knew from experience that men who’d been drinking as long
as they had were experiencing the world from a thick, gauzy
curtain, their senses deadened.
    They were grumbling and cursing
about something as they milled before the horses. Prophet waited
there in the shadows, frozen, watching and listening, trying to
figure out what they were up to. Surely they
weren ’t
leaving town at this hour, after all they’d had to
drink.
    At last, it became obvious they were
gathering up the reins of all the horses at the hitch rack, and
were leading the horses off somewhere.
    ‘ Shit... I don’t see why this is my job,’ one of them
complained.
    ‘ Shut
up, Price.’
    ‘ I’m
gonna miss my turn with that girl upstairs.’
    ‘ You
rather have a dead horse to ride tomorrow?’
    Price said something in reply,
but Prophet couldn ’t hear it because the three men and the eight horses had
drifted off down the street, apparently heading for the livery
stable. He’d heard enough, however.
    So the girl really was upstairs... .
    Prophet watched the saloon to
see if anyone else came out, then took a breath and ran northward
down the side street. After about fifty yards, he stopped, took
another gander at the saloon, then headed across the street to the
saloon ’s
rear.
    There was a slender staircase running up the
back of the building to the second story. Peering around in the
dark to make sure no one was around or using the privy, which was a
pale splotch in the darkness twenty yards north, Prophet put his
hands on the